First Runner Up
by Jennifer N
Summary: Of course Former Coworker 3 wouldn't be Oscar. Or Kelly. Or Angela, or Kevin, or Creed, or God forbid even Michael. Angsty futurefic. COMPLETE


**Title:** First Runner-up

**Summary:** "Of course Former Coworker #3 wouldn't be Oscar. Or Kelly. Or Angela, or Kevin, or Creed, or God forbid even Michael." Angsty futurefic. 1/1

**Category:** Angst

**Spoilers:** None

**Rating:** PG

**Disclaimer:** _The Office_ does not belong to me.

**First Runner-up**

Her grandmother always told her things came in threes.

Her first job as a receptionist, young and naive and certain she wouldn't be there long. Moving out of her parents' house. Meeting Roy.

Jim's letter of resignation. The documentary team losing their funding and abandoning the project. The announcement from Corporate that the Scranton office was closing.

Going back to work part-time. Packing up baby clothes. The plus sign on the white stick.

So it shouldn't surprise her when she walks down aisle 4 that she sees him. It's logical, she tries to convince herself as he looks up and notices her. She said hello to Phyllis a few weeks ago as she placed her produce on the conveyor belt. Dwight was spotted at the elementary school Tuesday, all in the name of Fire Prevention Week.

She should have known this was coming.

Of course Former Coworker #3 wouldn't be Oscar. Or Kelly. Or Angela, or Kevin, or Creed, or God forbid even Michael.

"Pam?"

"Hey," she says softly.

"Wow, it really is you." He takes a step forward, as if to hug her, then stops.

She bridges the gap and hugs him—quickly enough that it would never be deemed inappropriate, long enough that she can commit it to memory. "What are you doing back here?"

"My old roommate's getting married. He's next door paying for the tuxedo rentals"–at this he points his finger towards the other end of the strip mall–"so I'm just killing time here."

"In the office supply store, of course," she laughs. "When in Scranton . . ."

"Yeah, since Dunder-Mifflin was unable to fulfill its duties in this walk down memory lane, the paper aisle was first runner-up."

She smiles and shakes her head. "So, uh, are you still with the pharmaceuticals company?"

"No, I left there years ago. What's it been . . . three, four years? I work in telecommunications now."

"Impressive."

"Not really," he shrugs. "Just another desk in another office. I've got some cool computer games though."

"No one to play pranks on? No games to play when the boss is away?"

He mumbles something she can't quite make out, then clears his throat. "So what kind of paper were you looking for?"

"Jim? What aren't you tell—no. _No!_"

He fidgets uncomfortably.

"You're the boss?" she exclaims.

"Not _the_ boss. I'm, uh, just a low-level management type person."

"Uh huh."

"Really."

"Okay."

They stare at each other, smiling.

"So, the paper?"

"Oh, right." Her eyes scan the shelves. "Just your basic, boring resume paper." She stands on her tiptoes and pulls down a box. "Like this one."

He pulls it out of her hands. "You don't want this one."

"I don't?"

"Trust me. I used to work in the paper industry," he winks. "This is the not-horrible resume paper that will get you the job answering phones the rest of your life. This is the paper that—"

"—is on sale," she points out.

He glances at the price sticker. "So it is."

Wordlessly he returns the paper to her outstretched hand.

"But thank you for your expert opinion," she feels the need to add, trying to bring some levity to the conversation.

"So what's the big job?"

"Hmm?"

"Well, you're buying resume paper, so . . ."

"Oh." She blushes. "I don't know. I haven't really worked the last few years, but now that they're both in school—well, it just seems like the right time to go back to work." She smiles ruefully. "Besides, piano lessons and gymnastics aren't cheap."

He grimaces. "We're still in the diapers and formula stage. I try not to think about how much more things are gonna cost in a few years."

She nods in agreement, a question of "We?" on the tip of her tongue. But she holds herself in check, makes note of the gold band for the first time, and reminds herself of a similar band on her own hand.

"If you want, you're welcome to join us for dinner tonight," she spontaneously offers. "I can assure you it'll be a gourmet delight of hot dogs and macaroni and cheese."

"Ah, my favorite," he grins. "Can't, though. We've got the rehearsal dinner."

"Oh yeah, right," she says slowly. _Idiot._ How had she already forgotten why he was in Scranton to begin with? (Let alone the fact he would never eat at the same table as Roy?)

"But the next time I'm in town, I'll be sure to take you up on the offer."

"Oh, definitely," she nods. She glances down at her watch and jerks in surprise. "Oh my God—I didn't think it was this late." She looks up. "I'm sorry, the girls will be getting off the bus in seventeen minutes, and if I'm not there . . ."

He nods in understanding. "Go. It was great seeing you," he adds.

"You too." She turns and begins to walk away.

"Hey, Pam?"

She stops and faces him. "Yeah?"

"Remember that documentary they were making about Dunder-Mifflin?"

"Yeah . . . they lost their funding right around the time you left. The project was never completed."

He opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. "About a year later, I got a dvd from them. It was a rough cut they had had in the works. The letter made it sound like they sent one to all of the employees, sorta like a 'thank you' for tolerating them for so long."

"Yeah, uh, we got one in the mail too." She shifts her feet awkwardly.

"Did you watch it?"

"Did you?"

"Eventually. Cured my insomnia," he says lightly, making a face at her. "Well?" He looks at her expectantly.

"Yeah. I watched it." That's all she will tell him. She won't mention that she watched it while nursing a newborn, that she convinced herself the tears were just her hormones raging, that the dvd is buried in the bottom of a dresser drawer where no one will find it.

"Well . . . good. That's good."

"Good," she echoes softly, then grimaces. "I really have to . . ."

"Yeah. Good luck with the job search."

"Thanks. Good luck not becoming the next Michael Scott," she throws out.

He winces. "That was harsh."

She smiles. "Good-bye, Jim."

"'Bye, Pam."

_fin_


End file.
